


A Sinner on His Knees

by flitwickslittlebrotha



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Pre-The Dream Thieves, Tagged underage since both of them are underage, but this does not feature adults being intimate with minors, the porn is not too explicit for this very reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitwickslittlebrotha/pseuds/flitwickslittlebrotha
Summary: Ronan indulges himself in a very bad habit.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: TRC Secret Pal Fic Exchange: November 2020





	A Sinner on His Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrumPuffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrumPuffer/gifts).



> My first time writing anything for this fandom :)  
> Made for the first round of the TRC Fic Exchange, KrumPuffer hope you enjoy :)

Kavinsky’s hand was tight on his scalp, sharp fingernails digging into his skin like the claws of a crow.

Ronan welcomed the pain like an old friend.

The first time had been an accident. The second, a mistake. By the third time he saw it for what is was: the beginning of a very, very bad habit.

But Ronan had a lot of those, and he knew how to deal with the self-hatred that came with each of them. At least this one didn’t leave him with a pounding headache or a pool of blood. Most of the time.

“Hurry up, baby,” Kavinsky said, tracing a finger down Ronan’s face to his lips. “I’ve got other things to do today than get my cock sucked by you.”

It was blunt, crude, and exactly what Ronan needed. He couldn’t let this be anything other than dirty, anything other than ugly, anything other than pure hate and a little bit of lust.

“Don’t call me baby,” Ronan grumbled, and Kavinsky pressed at his lip hard, making his tooth slice open the inside of his mouth. He tasted the iron in his blood.

“Don’t tell me what to do. In fact, don’t tell me anything at all, and instead put that pretty mouth to good use.”

They were at Kavinsky’s place, in his basement. It was where they always did this. This is how it happened:

Kavinsky would find Ronan on an abandoned stretch of freeway. Ronan would speed past him, leaving that shiny white Mitsubishi in the dust. He would wait at the end of the stretch, and he would tell himself it was so he could gloat when Kavinsky caught up. But then Kavinsky would keep driving past him. And Ronan would follow him home.

A very, very bad habit.

Kavinsky’s nails were sharp on his head again, and Ronan resigned himself to the lust and loathing that would soon consume him. He put his hands to the leather of Kavinsky’s belt. He put his hands to the metal of his zipper.

He didn’t know where he got off on this, exactly. Whether it was the sex of it all, or something else. The feeling of being controlled. The excuse to give into the self-hatred. The shame that found him on his knees. The fear of being discovered.

Ronan’s heart leapt at so many terrible things, he could never figure out the cause of his vices.

“Always so good, baby” Kavinsky murmured from above. His stomach was smooth and flat as Ronan ran a hand under his wife-beater. One of Kavinsky’s hands came down to the back of Ronan’s neck, guiding his movements. Ronan wanted that grip to get tighter, and like a mind-reader, Kavinsky did just that.

Ronan often got the feeling Kavinsky’s mind was more dangerous than his body. And his body had done a fair share of damage to a fair share of people.

He was yanked back by the throat, and Ronan, unprepared, let a stream of saliva pull back with him. He licked his lips, still tasting blood, and looked up.

“Stay,” Kavinsky demanded. He retreated until the backs of his knees hit the theatre seats behind him. Keeping his eyes on Ronan, he sank into one of them, spreading his legs wide and stroking himself lazily. “I got bored,” he explained.

Ronan was on fire, his whole body thrumming with need and want and revulsion. He made to get up, to follow Kavinsky and swallow him back down.

“Nuh-uh,” Kavinsky sang, grinning like a shark. “Crawl.”

Humiliation burned at his cheeks, and arousal licked at his stomach. Ronan crawled.

“Good boy,” Kavinsky murmured, taking Ronan by the head again and guiding his mouth back down. Ronan hated how right it felt. “Are we ever gonna take this farther, pretty boy?” Kavinsky’s hand meandered toward Ronan’s waistband, but Ronan swatted it away with fervor. _No._ He wouldn’t indulge himself the blessing of being touched. He wouldn’t indulge himself the sin of being touched by someone as despicable as Kavinsky.

Kavinsky just laughed at the incendiary expression Ronan gave him through dark lashes and hollowed cheeks. “Whatever you say, baby,” he chuckled. “All the same to me.”

Ronan focused on the task at hand, wanting to make it good and embarrassed by how much thought he put into his technique. The opinion of someone like Kavinsky shouldn’t matter. But it did.

“Saving yourself for someone else, sweetheart?” Kavinsky mused. Ronan wouldn’t let him go down that train of thought, wouldn’t let him be _right._ Instead, he pressed his fingers into Kavinsky’s hips, moved his mouth faster, added the pressure.

It worked, and Kavinsky stopped talking in favor of a string of grunts. “Those pretty little lips sure know what they’re doing,” he choked out, hips pressing back up into Ronan, making him gag. “Better than anything I could ever dream up.”

And Ronan had the distinct feeling Kavinsky wasn’t lying, that Ronan actually showed up in his dreams. A dangerous mind, indeed.

Suddenly Kavinsky’s hand was on the front of his throat, crashing into his windpipe, and every thought went away except for the singular effort of trying to breathe. It was impossible, of course, with the way Kavinsky was invading his mouth, and he lost himself in the easy pleasure of that impossibility, the way he relinquished control and responsibility and all the weight he carried with him.

After he had finished, Kavinsky pulled Ronan up until their lips were aligned.

“Don’t—” Ronan started, but Kavinsky was kissing him anyway, and Ronan was opening his mouth beneath him anyway, and the two of them both hated the gesture and craved it anyway.

Kavinsky bit down, hard, and another trickle of blood leaked into Ronan’s mouth from where he’d cut himself earlier. He was grateful for it.

Later, after he’d washed the taste away with a swig of something acerbic from a suspiciously unmarked bottle, Ronan left Kavinsky at his door.

“See you next time, baby,” Kavinsky smirked, arms folded across his chest. Everything about him was lazy and satisfied – everything except his eyes. They burned with a fire Ronan had seen in the mirror all too many times.

“In your dreams,” Ronan replied, not looking back as he zeroed in on the safe outline of his BMW.

“As always.”

And when Ronan reached the gate and looked back in his review mirror, the door was already closed and Kavinsky was gone.


End file.
